A Choriambic Progression

Second disclaimer just in case: This fic is not mine, it's from the very talented Mairead Triste and Aristide, and whoever they are, they've done the world a huge favor in writing this. All credits to them and I hope their life is a haven of the joy and glory they deserve.  This work couldn't be found anywhere except on the internet archive, which, unless someone was intently looking for it, couldn't be found. I am not trying to steal anyone's work, just making some people aware of this piece of art.

Harry scraped up a spoonful of porridge, then stuck the spoon in his mouth and left it there, just because he could. Grimmauld Place was silent and empty except for him, and there was nobody there to tell him he looked the world's biggest prat with a spoon hanging out of his mouth, so why not? He ran his tongue along the spoon's curve, coaxing off sticky bits of porridge, and wondered what he should do with himself after he'd taken care of his breakfast dishes--not that he planned to do them right away, mind. He smiled a bit at his own ridiculous idea of rebellion, but it was a bitter smile, one with no real pleasure in it. Just a spoon.

In the dim, vacant house it seemed much more difficult to be grateful for a summer holiday away from the Dursleys, and much easier to feel the weight of his solitude; to listen unwillingly to the echoes that haunted the places where Sirius should have been. In the natter and bustle that normally filled the rooms, sometimes that loss retreated to a background hum of sadness--something ever-present, yet often eclipsed by the inevitable force of Life Going On. But on a day like today, when all the Order members were out on various errands, and it was Harry alone who had to be the one left behind (as Sirius himself used to be, yes, very much like that); there was nothing else to distract him from any of it, from his grief and his unanswered questions and his empty, useless thoughts of how Maybe It Could Have Been Different If--

Harry was spared from going down that old road yet again, interrupted by a sudden burst of flame from the kitchen fire. He heard a familiar voice say half of his name, but the rest was lost in an absolutely tremendous sneeze that seemed to change the air-pressure in his ears. He had just yanked the spoon out of his mouth and gotten to his feet when a very sooty Albus Dumbledore entered through the fireplace, blinking rapidly a few times before he let fly with another sneeze, loud enough to rattle the dishes in the sink.

Harry offered his unused napkin, eyeing the Headmaster with some alarm. "Professor Dumbledore--are you all right?"

Dumbledore waved him away, chuckling, and produced an oversized crimson and purple handkerchief from somewhere in his robes. "Quite, thank you," he said in a choked, nasal voice as he pressed the handkerchief to his face. "Please, don't stand on ceremony, just finish your breakfast, and I'll be--" he was cut off by another robust sneeze, which sent the garish fabric flapping like a flag on a windy day. "--with you directly." There was a strident sound of nose blowing, and Harry dropped his napkin on top of his bowl. He certainly didn't want any more porridge.

"Are you ill, Sir?" he asked, once the trumpeting noise had died down.

"Not at all, not at all," Dumbledore wheezed from beneath the handkerchief, scrubbing his face vigourously. "I seem to be experiencing some--"whonk"--difficulties with Floo powder lately; perhaps the late onset of an allergy. I'll be--"snork"--fine in a moment." Dumbledore emerged, a little pink around the eyes and with soot still clinging to his whiskers, but otherwise normal. He smiled. "There now. Much better. Please, sit down, Harry."

Harry sat down. "If you've come to see the others, I'm sorry." It was harder than he'd expected to keep a note of sulkiness from his voice. "They've all gone off for the day. I don't know where."